


i think this time i'm dying

by aviator8



Series: and i'll put down my roots when i'm dead [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dadza, Dialogue Heavy, Dream Smp, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Ghostbur, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Swearing, except not really, l'manberg, l'manburg, no beta we die like wilbur soot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aviator8/pseuds/aviator8
Summary: It's only after he's dead that his father bothers to give a shit.Funny how things work out like that.ortoo much caffeine and ghostbur angst motivated me to write this in half an hour enjoy 👍
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Niki | Nihachu, Floris | Fundy & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: and i'll put down my roots when i'm dead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032339
Comments: 6
Kudos: 148





	i think this time i'm dying

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gF2NJDcvO2M&t=130s)  
> title is from "saline solution" by wilbur soot, i'm bad at titles but i thought it matched fairly well idk  
> enjoy!! :]

What was supposed to be a cheerful day on the docks has shifted, turned slightly off-kilter and ugly. 

The sun beats down on them, and where it had been pleasant and comforting before, it’s now suffocating and all too bright.

Philza was supposed to teach him how to fish. _Get some grandfather-grandson bonding time,_ the man had said with a soft smile. No matter how much the man might be at a loss on how to handle the orphaned grandson who’d been sprung on him suddenly, he’s still trying. Which is a whole lot more than Fundy can say for his _father_.

The father who is standing in front of them now, faded yellow sweater and slightly translucent fingertips and all.

Tubbo’s eyes are wide, and he’s taking in the situation with his usual curiosity and perceptiveness. Clueless dead father, tense and abandoned son.

“He always wanted his father to take him fishing,” Phil says to the ghost, knuckles whitening as he grips his fishing pole a little too tightly.

Wilbur swallows. He effectively ignores his own father, turning to his son instead. The son who has absolutely no interest in what Wilbur may have to say. He lost that privilege when he abandoned his own child for the sake of war and glory and destruction. “I--just thought… Well. I haven't spoken to any of you in a while.”

Fundy tightens his shoulders. “Really? And when was the last time you remember speaking to me?”

“Well, it was when you ran for the election. I was so proud of you.”

The sick urge to laugh rises in Fundy’s stomach. _The pity vote._ His father turning away, again and again, dismissing him with the flick of a hand. The distraught look on Niki’s face as she watched the country she’d help raise from the earth be lost in one fell swoop, as she watched her best friend allow his own pride and insecurity and mistrust to rot him from the inside out. _You were just the pity vote._ No, Fundy doesn't think _fatherly pride_ was an emotion that even remotely crossed Wilbur’s mind during the elections. The most he remembers getting out of his father was a blink, a faint trace of shock in those familiar brown eyes, and an absentminded clap on the shoulder before the then-president went back to his paperwork or whatever.

The Wilbur standing in front of him now, a naive hope lighting his death-dulled eyes, clearly doesn't think so. And some small, stupid part of him can't deny his father that hope. “I guess that was the last good time we spoke, yeah.” _Good_ is a gross overstatement, but it seems to please Wil.

“Oh. Well. Anyway, I don't actually want to fish. I just came here to check in, I guess. Did you like when I scared you?” He grins. The boyish innocence from Fundy’s earliest memories with him is back in full force.

“We were having a proper chat, Wil,” Fundy says curtly. Phil is watching silently from the side, an unreadable emotion in his blue eyes.

“Oh, lighten up,” Wilbur laughs. Isn't that rich. Aether, surely the universe is playing some colossal trick on him. “ _Boo, boo,_ ” he giggles. “Go on Fundy, say it. _Boo_. My little champion.”

“Don’t call me that.” His fists clench at his sides.

“Why don’t you want to be my little champion?” The laughter is still in the ghost’s voice. Just as deluded in death as in life. “Look, go on. _Boo_.”

Fundy shakes his head. He can’t--he can't deal with this right now.

He’s halfway across the docks, heading back to his house when he hears Wilbur stage-whisper to Phil and Tubbo, “He’s only fourteen, you know. He just needs some time to process things. Some time alone.” Tubbo makes some awkward joke, trying to alleviate the tension as usual. Wilbur interrupts the boy, all oblivious arrogance. Some things never change. “Phil, do you know how old Fundy is? Last I remember, he was quite young. Either way, he’s still my special little guy.” Fundy pauses on the steps above Niki’s bakery.

Phil clears his throat. “I remember being annoyed, whenever you said how cute he looked.” For a second, Fundy wants to stop, to turn around. Wilbur--Wilbur wrote to Phil about him? But no, _no_ , because he stopped giving a shit as soon as it really mattered.

Somewhere, in the smallest corner of Fundy’s heart, there's still a little boy, hugging his own knees. His pointed red ears droop slightly, and the uniform he wears is much too big. He grins up at a tall man with brown curls sticking out of his tricorn hat. But that little boy, the one who hero-worshipped the man who just didn't care enough, is gone. Beaten into the ground by war and betrayal and loss and his own flesh and blood.

Wilbur chuckles. “He’ll always be my little guy. Even when he’s old, and has a family of his own, he’ll always be my special little guy--” And that’s about as much as Fundy cares to listen to.

The sun is setting, and the weight of the world rests heavy on the fox-boy’s shoulders as he treks back up to his house.

He sits in the corner of his bedroom, staring at the wall as it gets darker and darker, yearning for something he can’t quite name.

. . .

Fundy has no idea how much time has passed, but it’s much darker outside when he finally composes himself.

The night dew is cool on his sock feet as he wanders over to Wilbur’s little shack and descends into the sewers. The little stone room is surprisingly cozy, lined with barrels and brewing stands and lanterns.

Phil’s here too, and Fundy spares his grandfather a brief nod. Wilbur’s perched on top of a barrel, chatting animatedly about something, but he stops and smiles when he notices Fundy. “Look, it’s my son!”

Fundy doesn't smile back. “Wilbur, it’s really time we had a chat.”

Wilbur groans. “Whenever people say that, they always end up telling me something sad that I’ve done.” Fundy’s about to respond to that when something bubbles behind him and Wilbur pushes past him, exclaiming, “Ooh, my potions are done!”

Fundy’s anger (that’s what it is, that’s the feeling that’s been clogging up his chest and keeping him from sleep) boils over, reforged into something bright and hot and sharp. “Wilbur, _listen!_ ”

Wilbur blinks back. “I--I am, I am.”

Fundy wants to punch something. “Wilbur, do you even _know_ \-- Listen. _Look_.” His father is still fiddling with those _fucking_ potions. “Look at me. _Wil_.” And he finally does, the ghost’s smile dropping slightly. “Every time something serious comes up, you just evade. You run away from any serious consequences. Anything that might be from your actions. You walk away from it. You just smile throughout everything. You think nothing is going on, you think everything is fine--” Fundy can’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. At least his father is finally, finally looking at him. “It’s not _fine_ , Wilbur. Things haven't been _fine_ for a long time now. You were there for me for a very fucking long, long time. And then when I needed you the most, you skedaddled the fuck out of my life and died. Because of what? L’Manberg’s causes?” Wilbur’s staring at the ground. “Huh? You thought that was justice? You thought that was good for me? You _left_ me.”

Fundy exhales. Instead of feeling triumphant, like he thought he might, he just feels strangely empty. 

Wilbur’s speechless. For the first time since his death, maybe for the first time ever, Fundy thinks his father is truly seeing him. “I--I don’t remember doing those things.”

Fundy doesn't care. “Let me tell you something, Wil. You know what happened after all of your memories, Wil? After all of your good memories of our, quote-unquote, last talk? ‘Cause it wasn't our last talk, Wil.”

“I--if I didn't remember it, then it wasn't worth remembering. Come on, let’s go fishing. Fishing’s fun…” That damn smile is back. Wil prattles on. Fundy glances at Philza, who’s just as speechless as he is. “D’you know, I’d _love_ to chat, I’d love to, but look, I’ve gotta go.” The ghost is edging towards the door. “Look, I’m sure there’s lots of horrible things I’ve done that you wanna tell me about, but I’ve gotta go--I’ve actually got a meeting--And I’d love for you to tell me how horrible of a person I was, but I--I really have to go. And I don’t know what all this business about being adopted is, but I'm sure it’s all happy and everything’s good.” And just like that, he’s gone. 

Wilbur’s really fucking good at leaving, as it turns out. Fundy just doesn't know why it still hurts, every time.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and feedback are very pog!!  
> maybe follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/HONKBLADE) :0  
> more coming soon, whenever i have motivation <3


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